


Senses

by tafizgurl



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-14
Updated: 2010-09-14
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tafizgurl/pseuds/tafizgurl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When one sense is lost, the others become more acute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Senses

It has been said that when a person loses one of their senses, the other four become more acute in compensation. As I lay replete yet sleepless in the warm summer evening, I determined to amuse myself by testing this theory. Closing my eyes so that even the dim moonlight was blocked, I reached out with my remaining senses.

Touch: What could I feel? Beneath me, I felt the bed clothes, soft as silk from many launderings and warmed by my body heat. On my face, I could feel the breeze from the window that stood half-opened against the heat, unusual in London even in summer. I felt it ruffle my hair, and I smiled. From beside me, I could feel the heat radiating off my sleeping lover's form. Even in winter, he is a comforting fire in the darkness. I slid my fingers down his arm in a gentle touch; he shuddered, but did not wake. His pale skin was smooth and soft; not the skin of a manual labourer, evidence of his intelligence, ambition and drive to become more than a dockworker, a cab driver, or even a mere office clerk. He had made a place for himself; had invented his own position, and was unique, in and of himself.

Smell. Again, I could smell the bed clothes, recently laundered, and folded away with lavender. The breeze from the window carried not only the acrid scent of the streets but also the perfume of the roses that grew beneath my window and against the mew wall. Turning my head, I caught the spicy scent of the soap my lover preferred. Sandalwood, I believe, with an undertone of... lemon? I only knew that fresh from the bath, his skin tasted of sunshine. Or perhaps the citrus aroma was the pomade with which he dressed his hair?

Distracted, I pondered the delight of seeing him go from calm and cool – hair slicked back, high collar and cravat about his neck, watch chain draped across his waistcoat, all of him wrapped in a black frock coat – to the man only I knew, naked, sweating, his hair disarranged from my fingers in it, frenzied and grimacing as he found his release – and mine – in my body.. But I digress.

Taste. Apart from the salt-spiced aftertaste of our previous activities (I almost blushed to think of my wantonness), I could taste the tart sweetness of the wine we shared over dinner, the smooth undertones of the brandy he had swallowed (hurriedly) as I led him to the bedroom, even the hint of his tobacco. I ran my tongue over my lips and imagined I could taste his kiss.

I felt my body stir again, but I did not wish to wake him, so I returned to my experiment.

Hearing. I could hear the soft sounds of the house settling for the night. The wind in the garden. The gurgle of the water in the pipes. Soft scrabbling of a mouse in the wainscoting. (That would have to be dealt with, but not tonight.) From outside, I heard the constable on his rounds through the mews, his footfalls clear in the night. I must consider that; if I can hear him so clearly, what can he hear from me? Then came the rustle of the bedclothes as my lover turned onto his back, and the susurrus of his breaths turned to soft snores. I smiled again; if only he knew how alluring he looks when asleep.

And then another noise – the front door opening? I stiffened, listening intently. Soft voices in the foyer, a man's step on the floor. I doubt they knew how well the sound carried. A tread on the stairs, and then...

"Mrs. Huds-" His tone was loud and demanding; I heard him break off in mid-word, and then the doctor's quiet remonstrance.

"Holmes! It's well past midnight; surely she is asleep. Come to bed, my love; whatever it is will keep until morning."

I started to shift, preparatory to rising but felt myself captured by a strong arm about my waist, and I settled back against his chest (hard and muscular, in repudiation of another of the doctor's protective literary exaggerations).

"Stay here, my dear. The good doctor will see to Sherlock's needs." I felt his lips on my shoulder, the back of my neck, and then came his whisper in my ear. "My brother always was a demanding little brat."


End file.
